


neither here nor there

by bluejayblueskies



Series: guiltless [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5 times they did 1 time they didn't, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Tim gets a little love, as a treat, author is american, but only slightly - Freeform, fluff with an angsty ending, the og archival assistants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: connection (n.): a set of persons associated together; a relation of personal intimacyFive times Jon and Tim have a connection and one time it breaks
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Series: guiltless [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906735
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63
Collections: The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge





	neither here nor there

**Author's Note:**

> The week 4 work for the Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge! Information on the challenge can be found [here](https://magnus-mailday.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> My brain: haha what if Jon and Tim were in a relationship pre-Archives
> 
> Also my brain: haha what if their relationship _started_ pre-Archives and then built until the end of season 1 and then season 2 proceeded exactly as canon

_I. take me back to the night we met_

The first time Timothy Stoker sees Jonathan Sims, he knows that he’s well and truly fucked.

Maybe it’s the way his forehead creases when Elias mentions ‘mandatory teambuilding exercises.’ Maybe it’s the iron-pressed olive green shirt and black argyle vest that are just slightly too professional for the Research Department. Maybe it’s the shine in his eyes when he sees the book-laden shelves spanning the walls and the slightly battered desktop computer that Elias directs him toward.

Or maybe it’s the cautious smile that he gives Tim as he settles into the desk next to him, the one that makes Tim’s heart skip a few beats.

Tim’s the kind of person to fall a little in love with someone new each day. Yesterday it was the woman he passed leaving his apartment, smiling softly with her phone held to her ear, shopping bag swinging at her side. Tomorrow it’ll be the man on the tube with long grey hair swept into a low bun, humming to a song only he can hear. But today it’s Jonathan Sims, with his forehead creases and pressed shirts and bright eyes and careful smiles. And from the way it _tugs_ at Tim’s chest, like an invisible thread connecting them over empty space, he knows that it’s the kind that’s going to stick around.

“Hi,” he says, trying and failing to school his tone of voice into something other than terribly infatuated. “I’m Tim. Welcome to our corner of the universe.”

Jon blinks at him, like he’s not sure what to do, before stiffly extending a hand. “Jon. Nice to- uh, nice to meet you, I suppose.”

A grin tugging at the corners of Tim’s mouth, he takes Jon’s hand— _warm, slightly calloused, so thin and fragile in Tim’s_ —and shakes it once, letting his fingers linger slightly as he pulls away. “No need to look so nervous,” he jokes, and Jon’s cheeks color slightly. “We don’t bite.” _Unless you ask nicely,_ his brain supplies, and the amount of self-control Tim exerts to keep it locked inside is truly monumental. However, he can’t resist a cheeky, “Well, Sasha might, so I would steer clear if I were you.”

A pen hits the back of his head. “Timothy Stoker! I will _not_ let you sully my pristine reputation.”

Tim turns in his chair and sticks his tongue out at Sasha, whose responding glare is lined with humor. Then, he turns back to Jon, who’s shifting in his chair uncomfortably, his eyes flitting back and forth between them. Tim’s tone softens into something gentler as he says, “That’s Sasha. She was transferred from Artifact Storage a few months ago, so if you want any scary stories about haunted dolls and the like, she’s your gal.”

“I- I think I’m all right, for now,” Jon says haltingly, turning back to his computer. His eyes lock on the screen in what could be mistaken for rudeness, or even discomfort, if Tim didn’t see that same _shine_ as before as he clicks through the files. Nothing more interesting than administrative details, certainly, as all case files slated for research come in paper form, but Jon’s eyes still scan them rapturously. Tim chucks the pen back at Sasha, who catches it without glancing up from her desk, and swivels back to face his own.

And if he keeps sneaking glances at Jon out of the corner of his eye as the day stretches on, it’s really neither here nor there.

_II. more to life than pity things_

The shadows have long since stretched and vanished when Tim finally shuts down his computer, stretching against his chair with a groan until his back pops. Next to him, Jon’s still typing away on his keyboard, eyes fixed to the glowing screen with rapt attention. Tim honestly doesn’t know if he’s aware that they’re the only ones in the Institute anymore.

Tim’s stayed late plenty of times, doing… side projects. One specific side project. But he’s been here for a little over a year, now, and there’s only so long he can comb through the same library, chase the same dead ends, before everything starts to feel a little hopeless. He’s been letting himself get absorbed in the job, lately. Doing more diligent follow-up, taking on extra cases, the lot. It helps soothe the ache in the back of his mind that’s been a near-constant since… since Danny. Maybe he should feel guilty for letting go so easily. But it’s better than continuing to feel helpless.

“Hey,” he says, laying two fingers on Jon’s shoulder. He’d learned months ago that he could say Jon’s name until he was hoarse, but it would almost always fall on deaf ears when he was absorbed in his work like this. Touch, though, worked like a charm. The first time, Tim had wrapped his entire hand around Jon’s upper arm and the man had jerked like he’d been shocked. After that, Tim made sure his touches were gentle: a brush to the upper back, a tap on the back of a hand, a finger skimming the outside of a forearm. Gradually, Jon had stopped flinching at every touch.

Now, Jon’s eyes finally flick away from the computer screen, and Tim can’t fully repress the small shiver that runs through him when Jon’s eyes lock with his. “It’s late,” Tim says, standing and collecting his coat from the back of his chair. “Time to head out?”

Jon glances at his computer again, hesitance written in the lines of his face. “I- I still have some follow-up to do on that Masters case, and then there’s the issue with the records for the Emery case—“

“Jonathan Sims,” Tim says, placing both hands on the back of Jon’s chair and spinning it so he’s facing away from his desk. Jon makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t resist. “The work will still be there in the morning. You know, when it’s light out and we’re actually on the clock and getting paid.”

“It won’t _be_ there in the morning if I finish it tonight,” Jon grumbles, but Tim recognizes the small upward slant of his mouth, and after a moment, Jon groans and swivels back to his computer just long enough to power it down. “Why do I always let you convince me to do this?” he grouses as he stands and shrugs on his own jacket, a too-long black pea coat that practically swallows him whole.

“Because I’m a good friend and an even better influence,” Tim says with a smile, letting his hand knock against Jon’s as they exit the Institute. The cold December air hits him like a slap in the face, and a full-body shiver overcomes him as they begin walking toward the tube station. It’s dark enough that the streetlights are on, but not late enough that the tube isn’t running its regular schedule—a rare occurrence, when it comes to enticing Jon to leave work.

Still, Tim extends his usual offer. “Dinner at my place?”

And, like usual, Jon hesitates. Tim waits for the excuse. Sometimes, it’s _I’m not hungry._ Sometimes, it’s _It’s getting late, I should get back to my flat._ Lately, it’s simply _No thank you, Tim._ He’ll shrug, like always, and give a light _Next time, maybe. Just make sure you **do** eat._ He’ll go back to his house and make enough dinner for two, anyway, and if he happens to accidentally bring _too much leftovers again, Jon why don’t you take some? No really, I insist_ for lunch the next day, then it’s neither here nor there.

Then, Jon says haltingly, “That- that would be nice, actually. So- so long as you’re, uh. Offering,” and Tim’s heart does a little _squeeze_ in his chest.

Tim’s stop is a few after Jon’s, and when Jon doesn’t get off at his normal stop, his hand still wrapped around the metal pole inches from Tim’s, that happy _squeeze_ comes again. The bright lights of the tube station fade into dark blue twilight as they make the short commute to Tim’s house, and Jon’s relaxed enough that he begins to chatter about the case he’s working on. It morphs into a discussion on the politics of the British housing market as Tim unlocks his front door and guides Jon inside and into the kitchen, where he’d blessedly thought to tidy up before leaving that morning. As Tim sets water to boil and begins slicing up onions, Jon maneuvers through a myriad of topics, punctuated by various sounds of approval or affirmation from Tim. By the time Tim slides a plate of Belizean rice and beans and stewed chicken in front of him, he’s halfway through an explanation of the growth cycle of cotton.

“Jon,” Tim says, placing a light touch against the side of Jon’s hand, and Jon stops halfway through his sentence, glancing at the plate in front of him with some surprise. “Food.”

“Ah.” Jon glances at Tim, his face slightly flushed. “T- thanks.”

Tim hums and sits at the table across from him. It’s strangely intimate; it’s not like Tim hasn’t had people over at his house before, both in romantic and non-romantic capacities, but the way Jon stares at the plate in front of him for a moment before gingerly picking up his fork and spearing a piece of chicken sends something tumbling within him. Then, Tim shifts, and their shins brush under the table, and Jon doesn’t flinch, and _oh god, Timothy Stoker, don’t think about it, just **eat your food.**_

There’s a few minutes of awkward silence punctuated only by the clink of silverware against ceramic. Then, Jon clears his throat and says, “Um. Thank you, again.”

Tim grins. “Jon. I have been inviting you over for dinner for _months._ I should be thanking _you_ for finally taking pity on me and putting an end to the _will they, won’t they_.”

Jon flushes slightly. “Yes, well. Thank you, anyway. I- I can get, erm. Absorbed in my work, and I thought it was rather rude to keep rejecting your offers when you’ve been staying late with me.”

_Oh. Right._ Tim feels equal parts foolish and guilty, and he stabs distractedly at his chicken. “Oh,” he says out loud. Then, he covers it all up with a smile—a Timothy Stoker specialty, cultivated over years of practice—and says, “Well, consider me thanked, then.”

Jon stares at him, head tilted slightly, and Tim can _feel_ those eyes cutting through his smile, peeling it away to reveal the subtle hurt underneath, and it’s such an entirely _new_ feeling that he doesn’t quite know what to do. “No, I- I didn’t mean it like that,” Jon says quickly, his eyes flicking to his half-eaten plate and studying it intently. “I- I _am_ happy to be here, Tim.” Then, with a small smile that _does_ things to Tim’s stomach: “After all, this may be the best chicken I’ve ever had.”

Tim laughs, real delight bleeding in and smothering the murky feelings underneath, and intentionally knocks his knee against Jon’s underneath the table. “You bet your arse it is. I _do_ have a reputation to uphold as the Institute’s best self-taught chef.”

They finish their meal, and the warmth remains in the pit of Tim’s stomach long after Jon vanishes into the cold of the night.

_III. how the pendulum swings_

The couch is perhaps a little too small for three people—it’s more of a loveseat, really, that Tim bought at a charity shop five years ago for the lofty price of 20 pounds and that has more holes than fabric at this point—but that doesn’t stop them from squishing together onto the worn cushions anyway. Jon squirms in his position sandwiched between Tim and Sasha, his mouth turned down in a combination of grumpiness and disdain. “Is this really necessary?” he grumbles, but Tim knows better than to interpret Jon’s irritability at face value.

“Absolutely,” he says, leaning forward to set the glass bottle and shot glasses against the coffee table with a _clink._ “It’s not every day that you get a _fancy new job title_ , after all.” He spreads his hands wide. “’Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.’ Hm, it does sound a little pretentious, now that I’m saying it out loud. You’re right; we should just call the _whole_ night off. Go home, all of you!”

He makes a shooing motion at Jon and Sasha; Sasha rolls her eyes, leaning forward to fill the glasses. The sharp smell of vodka wafts up, and Tim’s temporarily transported back to every shitty college party he’s ever had the misfortune of attending, the floors sticking to his shoes and heat leaching through his clothing from a hundred different points of contact. But it’s certainly the safest bet from his liquor cabinet, since he’s never been able to coax Jon into drinking anything stronger than beer the few times he’s convinced Jon to come along to Friday night drinks with the Research Department.

Jon still looks uncomfortable; he glances at Sasha, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and hesitates.

Sasha presses a glass firmly into Jon’s hand. “Jon. It’s fine, really. I’m not mad that you got the job.”

Jon stares into the shot glass like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Sasha sighs and reaches around him to pass the remaining glass to Tim. “Really,” she asserts. “It’s not your fault Elias is—“

“ _Anyway,_ ” Tim cuts in, not because he thinks Sasha is wrong—he _knows_ she’s right, and she should say it; she should _scream_ it from the rooftops, that Elias is a sexist bastard, that Sasha _definitely_ should have gotten the job—but because he _really, really_ doesn’t want Jon to hurry away with stammered excuses. God knows it had been hard enough to convince him to come along in the first place. “New rule: take a shot any time someone mentions Elias.”

Sasha groans, but raises the glass to her lips anyway. The liquor burns a line down Tim’s throat, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jon follows suit, his face twisting into a grimace as the vodka hits his tongue.

Tim refills the glasses deftly and raises his in the air. “Now, what _technically_ should have been the first shot: a toast to the new Head Archivist.” He shoots a wink at Jon. “That means I should be calling you ‘boss’ now, right?”

Jon sputters. “Please- please don’t. At least not while we’re doing- doing _shots_ in your living room.”

“Whatever you say, _boss._ ” The word rolls smoothly off Tim’s tongue in a way he probably shouldn’t like but really, _really_ does. The shot that burns its way down his throat is less smooth, but the next few are more so, and soon Tim’s brain has settled into a happy buzz. His arm finds its way around Jon’s shoulders, and Jon _leans into it_ , his hair tickling Tim’s cheek as his head rests against Tim’s shoulder, and it takes all of Tim’s willpower not to blurt out a goddamn love confession right then and there. He can’t quite stop himself from pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of Jon’s head, however, and Jon stiffens slightly before, after a moment of _oh god, oh no, I ruined it_ , he relaxes back into Tim’s side.

Sasha, whose ankle is wrapped around Jon’s, wiggles her eyebrows at Tim, and he flips her off with his free hand. With a giggle, she reaches over Jon to swat at Tim’s hand, and Jon lets out a small sound of protest as he’s squished tighter between the two of them. He mumbles something into Tim’s shoulder, and Tim can’t stop the fondness that bleeds into his voice when he says, “What was that, Jon?”

Jon lifts his head slightly, and Tim can feel his breath against his cheek when Jon repeats, “’M glad I’m here.”

Tim laughs lightly and, mindlessly, almost out of his control, his thumb starts rubbing small circles onto Jon’s arm. “I’m glad you’re here, too. So is Sasha, even if she’s being—“ A swat at Sasha’s hand where it’s pushing at Tim’s arm. “—thoroughly obnoxious right now.”

“Mm, Sasha,” Jon murmurs. “Sasha said… Elias didn’t—“

“Uh oh!” Tim interrupts, pulling away just enough to shoot Jon a theatrically disappointed look, accompanied by a dramatic finger wag. “That’s a violation of contract, boss! Sasha, the reparations if you please.”

Jon groans, burying his face in the crook of Tim’s neck. “Noooo, I didn’t mean it,” he protests, even as his hand closes around the shot glass that Sasha hands him. He pulls back, hair mussed and pulling out of its tight braid, and frowns at the liquor. “I really do prefer whisky,” he says absently, before downing the shot in one quick motion. Tim’s eyes lock on his throat as he swallows, and his vision goes hazy for a moment.

“I’ll be sure to get whisky next time, then, love,” he says breathily, and in the moment that it takes his mind to catch up to his mouth, he feels blissfully at peace. Then, everything settles, the word _love_ ricocheting in his mind, and he stiffens almost immediately. _Oh, shit._

Jon blinks at him, processing. Then, he hums and settles back against Tim’s side. “’S better than boss,” he murmurs, and the speed at which Tim melts back into Jon should be embarrassing, frankly, but he can’t bring himself to care. And if he drapes a blanket over Jon, later, as he snores softly on the couch and presses a kiss to Jon’s temple, well, it’s neither here nor there.

_IV. to love without demand_

It’s the little moments that count, Tim thinks.

Like when he passes Jon back a statement with follow-up attached and their fingers brush, lingering a little longer than is strictly necessary.

Or when he convinces Jon to have lunch in the break room instead of his office, and their knees bump underneath the table.

Or when he stops into Jon’s office, late at night before he leaves, and coaxes him out of the Institute and onto the tube.

It’s easy to forget, in the little moments, that things are any different now. Martin’s here now, and Tim tries to reassure him that Jon’s prickly exterior is just a front—a very, very thick front, but a front nonetheless.

“It’s not that he hates you, specifically,” Tim says, accepting the mug of steaming tea from Martin—milk and two sugars, just like he likes it, Martin is a _godsend_ —and watching the man wring his now-empty hands together. “He’s just- like that, particularly with people he doesn’t know well. And combine that with the fact that he feels like he has to justify the fact that he has this job with some sort of, I don’t know, _boss-sona_ , and you get—“ Tim waves his hand vaguely in the direction of Jon’s office. “ _That._ ”

Martin huffs out something between a sigh and a whimper. “He doesn’t treat _you_ like that, though. Or Sasha. Just- just _Martin, bollocking things up as **always**._”

Tim sets his tea down on his desk and places a hand on Martin’s wrist. “Martin, I _promise_ he doesn’t hate you. He was like this with me and Sasha at first, too.” He pauses, considering. “Well, perhaps this scaled down by about half,” he amends. “We only had to deal with the people-he-doesn’t-know-well bit. You do have the short end of the stick having to deal with both, unfortunately.”

Martin groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bloody fantastic.” He moves to sit at his desk, his own tea steaming on the corner. Then, under his breath, almost as an afterthought: “I just wish he wasn’t so _hot_.”

Tim gasps dramatically. “Martin Blackwood! Do my ears deceive me?”

Martin startles, and by the flush creeping quickly up his neck, it’s clear he hadn’t intended Tim to hear, but by god, Tim is _not_ letting this go. “Does Martin Blackwood think that his new boss is _hot_?”

Martin shoots a frantic look at the door to Jon’s office. “Tim, be _quiet,_ ” he hisses.

Tim lowers his voice only marginally. “I mean, you’re not _wrong_ , but still—what a development!”

The flush completely overtakes Martin’s face. “You- I don’t- wait, _you_ \- I- I think- _ugh!_ ” Martin buries his face in his hands. “Look what you’ve done,” he says dejectedly, his voice muffled by his hands.

Tim takes pity. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.” A coy grin spreads across his face. “In fact, I’ll do you one better. I’ll talk to Jon, see if I can get him to lay off.”

Martin makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough, and his head whips up to stare at Tim with wide eyes. “ _Tim, no!_ ”

Tim takes a sip of his tea and turns back to his computer. “It’s really no problem, Martin. What are friends for?”

The rest of Martin’s protests dissolve into laughter and sugary tannins.

For all of Tim’s teasing, when he walks into Jon’s office at nine o’clock that night and finds him slumped over his desk, chest slowly rising and falling and snores muffled by the statement still lying open on the hardwood surface, he makes the decision that he _is_ going to talk to Jon about it. But first…

Tim places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Jon. Wake up.”

The snoring cuts off abruptly, and with a groan, Jon straightens, rubbing at his neck and blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Urg… Tim,” he says eloquently, wincing as he hits a knot of tension between his shoulder blades. “I was just…”

“Uh huh,” Tim says flatly. “What would your chiropractor say if she saw you sleeping at your desk?”

Jon grumbles something about _handling it_ and _can’t get any worse back pain than I already have_ , and Tim scoffs as he moves his hand to Jon’s arm and pulls on it.

“Come on. It’s late. I’m making Moroccan stew tonight?” He still phrases it like a question, even though Jon says yes more often than not nowadays.

Jon sighs, glancing at the growing mountain of papers on his desk, and Tim thinks this might be one of the nights where nothing can convince Jon to leave the office. “Look,” he says, feeling the inevitable excuse coming on. “It’s fine if you stay here. I’m not going to push you. Just- just get a cot, or whatever, so you don’t pull something.”

Jon sighs again, heavier this time, and doesn’t say anything, but that’s not a no, so Tim counts it as a win. He settles on the edge of Jon’s desk, moving some papers to make room, ignoring Jon’s protests that _there’s a chair right there, Tim, for this express purpose_ and saying, “So. Martin.”

Jon fixes Tim with a _look._ “What about him?”

“He thinks you hate him.” Straight to the point. That’s the best way to get something across to Jon, sometimes. Less room for error.

“I- I don’t- I don’t _hate_ him,” Jon protests. “As an employee, though, he’s rather incompetent. I swear, the man has never had any formal archival training in his _life._ ”

Tim fixes Jon with a _look._ “Have _you_? Mr. ‘I’m-not qualified-for-this-job.’”

“ _Tim,_ ” Jon says with a warning glare, and Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Okay! Sorry, _boss._ ” He gives a small shrug. “I mean, none of us are really trained in library science, much less for an archiving job. Who _knows_ what Elias expects us to do down here.”

Jon stares at his desk, jaw twitching as if struggling for an answer. “General… archiving?”

Tim laughs. “Profound. Certainly, this is why Elias made you Head Archivist.”

Jon shoots Tim a glare, but it doesn’t have any heat behind it. “Yes, all right. I see your point.” He drums his fingers on the desk. Then, like pulling teeth: “I will… take it into consideration. What you said, about… Martin.”

That’s about as good as it’s going to get, Tim thinks. He bounces up from the desk, a cheery smile on his lips. “Awesome. He’s quite a lovely bloke, once you get to know him. As a _person_ , not an employee.”

Jon eyes Tim with equal parts disbelief and resignation. “I’m sure. Now, I _do_ have quite a bit of work to complete still, so if you don’t mind…?”

“You got it.” Tim makes as if to leave, then hesitates. And if he ducks back to press a quick kiss to Jon’s cheek before practically racing out the door, Jon’s flustered exclamations chasing him all the way out of the Archives, it’s neither here nor there.

_V. in my darkest moments_

It’s not the most romantic thing, staggering through the musty tunnels under the Institute with a fire extinguisher under one arm and the other slung around Jon’s shoulders as he limps along with his one good leg, scanning every inch of every surface for a flash of silver, but hey. Tim takes what he can get.

Martin’s gone. He’d gotten cut off by the worms, and Tim had wanted to reach out for him, to chase after him, but Jon couldn’t move nearly as fast as they would have needed to. And, well, with Jon’s leg…

Tim couldn’t leave him. Not just because of the leg.

“There!”

Tim points the nozzle and _sprays._ A small wriggle of silver falls to the floor, spasming for a few moments before blessedly stilling, though Tim’s heart is still pounding in his chest, his face, his throat. “Bloody _hell,_ ” he curses as they continue to hobble along. Sarcastically, he quips, “’It’ll just be a normal archiving job, Tim. No need to worry. You won’t almost get _eaten by worms_.’”

Jon groans, only half in pain. “You can’t _seriously_ be blaming me for this. It’s not like this was in the job description Elias gave me.”

Tim pokes his head around another corner. No silver. He guides Jon forward. “God, n- no, of _course_ not. It’s just…”

“… this place,” Jon finishes, and Tim nods mutely. “Yeah,” Jon sighs. “Things… things have been wrong from the start, I suppose. The statements that wouldn’t record digitally, the- the feeling, of, of being _watched_.” Jon laughs wryly. “The worms have been around for _months_ , and we just- we just _ignored_ them.”

Tim’s heart leaps into his throat as he sees another flash of silver, and he _sprays._ When the adrenaline fades, he guides Jon forward, a little faster than before, and Jon doesn’t say anything about it despite the obvious discomfort on his face. Then, after a few moments of silence, Jon says quietly, “I’m- I’m glad you’re here, though, Tim. Even with everything.”

Tim doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that he would have made a different choice, had he known. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that he _hadn’t_ known, that he hadn’t already seen what horrible things were possible those few years ago in a stone subterranean theatre. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t have done anything Jon asked without question or hesitation, consequences be damned.

It’s neither here nor there. He’s here. Not there. And regret has never really been his style.

“Yeah,” Tim says softly. “Yeah, me too.”

They’ve reached a trapdoor, of sorts, and Tim can hear the recorder in Jon’s pocket whirring. It might be an exit, a way out. It might lead back into the Archives, into a mass of horrible, writhing, squirming _death_. It’s a chance they have to take. So if he places a gentle hand on Jon’s cheek, and turns Jon’s face toward his, and presses a soft, desperate kiss to Jon’s lips, well.

It really is neither here nor there.

_And I. i have broken more and more_

_Don’t let it break_.

Martin hands Tim a mug of tea—milk, two sugars—and tells him about the photos, scattered on Jon’s desk. The ones of the house where Tim had coaxed the first of many laughs out of Jon as they sat on his threadbare couch, watching true crime documentaries. The house where Tim had turned _so long as you’re offering_ into _what’s for dinner, then?_ as they dragged themselves into the kitchen after a long day of work. The house where Tim had come to leave a soft knit blanket on the back of the couch for when Jon spent the night, because he would always offer that Jon take the bed ( _or we could both take the bed,_ always left unsaid), and Jon would always refuse.

Tim’s lips tingle, and he stops staying late.

_Don’t let it break._

Jon’s office used to be a comfort for Tim. It was a space where Jon would let his guard down, showing Tim smiles unfettered by _professional courtesy_ and letting small touches ghost against his skin in _accidental-not-accidental_ brushes of hands and knees and arms. At night, the soft light filtering from it would remind Tim that he wasn’t alone, even after Martin moved into the Archives and small, silvery worms began wriggling into the cracks in their lives. When Jon wouldn’t come out to the break room for lunch, Tim would duck in and drop a container of leftovers on the corner of his desk, ignoring the protests Jon gave that were more habit than anything. The containers would always end up back in Tim’s kitchen cabinets, somehow.

Now, it’s just the place where Jon looked Tim in the eye and accused him of murder. It’s hard to find comfort in any place, after something like that.

It’s strange, cooking for one, but Tim makes do.

_Don’t let it break._

Tim says some things. Jon says some things. It’s all a blur, really. A blur of rage. A blur of hate. A blur of pain, of loss, of something in Tim’s chest _ripping_ , and he just doesn’t understand _._ Weren’t things lovely, once?

_Things have been difficult._

_It just seems a little too convenient._

_Shut up. Just stop talking._

He doesn’t want to think about it. But it comes to his mind, unbidden, unwanted, yet so, so _lovely._ A movie on the television, one of those old black-and-white ones that Tim hates. Jon tucked against his left side, Sasha with an arm slung around him on his right, her feet kicked up over his thighs. The volume is low enough that the murmur of conversation cuts over the top of it: Sasha and Jon, debating the legitimacy of the Dewey Decimal System. Tim lets himself inhale the citrusy scent of Jon’s shampoo, the warm vanilla of Sasha’s perfume, and just _breathes._

_No one here has my back._

_Well, what do you want? Do you want sympathy?_

_Little bit of basic sympathy would have been nice._

Timothy Stoker does not cry easily. His laughs flow free, each one light and extracted with something as simple as a word. His smiles come so naturally, the resting state for his mouth, even when they’re motivated by something less than joyful. His soft words are meant for anyone, whether they think they deserve them or not, and his hugs are no different. His protective words and reassurances are for anyone that needs them, whether or not they believe that they do. His love is something freely given, not something kept close to his chest. His kisses are not quite so casual.

Timothy Stoker does not cry easily.

_I can’t do this anymore._

_If you hate it so much, leave._

_I… can’t._

Hold on. Just… just hold on.

_I’m sorry, Tim. Truly, I am. But I cannot and will not trust you._

He just needs to…

_Don’t let it—_

The thread snaps.

And, Tim thinks, as a stack of books about circuses grows ever taller on the corner of his desk, it really is neither here nor there.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I'm in pain
> 
> Soundtrack for each section:
> 
> _I. Absolutely Smitten - dodie_  
>  _II. Five Foot Three - Flannel Graph_  
>  _III. Arms Tonight - Mother Mother_  
>  _IV. Dancing in the Dawn - Jake Scott_  
>  _V. My Own Soul's Warning - The Killers_  
>  _And I. Crow - Sasha Siem_
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
